Chapter 81
Vladimir Suárez was cuffed to a steel chair beside a battered desk inside the dank cell. A single naked bulb burned with a sallow light high and out of reach. Anguished cries echoed in the corridors beyond the steel door.
Two weeks earlier, the American spy had delivered him bound and gagged to the fascist Colombian Army, who dropped him into this secret prison.
His body bore the evidence of their interrogations.
His left eye was now swollen shut, his unshaven face was caked with dried blood, and his flesh was covered in deep bruises from the brutal punches and truncheon blows of the sadistic inquisitors.
He didn’t care.
In fact, he wished they’d finish the job. Just beat him to death and get it over with. Anything to quiet the agonizing screams of his wife burning to death every night in his fitful dreams.
A set of keys jangled in the lock and the steel door swung open.
A lean, clean-shaven man stepped inside. He wore a pair of Levi’s 501s, a loose collared cotton shirt, Saucony running shoes, a thick mustache, and an easy smile. He also carried a worn canvas messenger bag. The soulless prison guard shut the door behind him.
Suárez feigned indifference, but he sized up the man with his one good eye, catching him in his peripheral vision. As near as he could tell, the man was unarmed.
“So you’re the new torturer?” Suárez asked.
“I don’t believe in it.”
The man pulled out a pack of Marlboros and a lighter from his shirt pocket, lit one up, and put it in Suárez’s mouth. The Colombian killer took a long drag as the man pulled a key and unlocked his cuffs, then tossed them with a noisy clang onto the table.
Suárez rubbed the blood back into his wrists as the man lit a smoke for himself. He then pulled the other steel chair around from the back of the table, dragged its scraping feet across the tiled floor next to Suárez, and fell into it.
The two Colombians smoked for a minute in silence, like two old friends on a park bench. Suárez inhaled deep lungfuls of nicotine as if it were pure oxygen. The small room clouded with blue smoke.
Suárez dragged the last bit of cigarette to its filter and then flicked it away.
“If you want information,” Suárez finally said, breaking the silence, “it will take more than a cigarette.”
The man held up the pack. Suárez took another, snatched up the lighter, and took a long drag. “And it will take more than two.”
The man chuckled.
Suárez closed his eyes, and let the tendrils of smoke escape his nostrils like a brooding dragon. He didn’t open them when the peep slot on the steel door slid open and the guard looked in to see what was going on.
The easygoing interrogator threw a look at the guard that made him nearly soil himself. He slammed the peep slot shut and didn’t come back.
The man returned his attention to Suárez, his face a mask of unrelenting grief—impervious to any physical pain anyone could ever level against him.
“I’m sorry about Nadia,” the man began softly.
Suárez opened his eyes. They flickered with simmering rage.
The man continued. “I once watched a man burn to death. It was the worst thing I ever saw.”
Suárez shut his eyes tightly as if he could drive his wife’s screams out of his mind.
“They roughed you up pretty badly. Those Army guys are real pendejos. They shouldn’t have done that to you.”
“My abuela hits harder than that major of yours.”
The man squinted. “Looks like he knocked out a couple of teeth. We can fix that. What did you do to make him so angry?”
“The pig said my people killed his father and brother.”
“Did they?”
Suárez shrugged. “Does it matter who or when or why? We’re all in the same charnel house. Nobody gets out of here alive.”
The man leaned back. “So you’re a philosopher.”
“And you’re Colombian intelligence.”
“Emilio Cabral.”
“Is that what your mother calls you?”
Cabral shook his head with a grin. He was dealing with a real pro. And fearless.
“My mother calls me a lot of things.”
“What is it you want from me, Senor Cabral?”
Cabral dropped his smoldering cigarette to the floor and crushed it beneath his shoe.
“You know the drill. Names. Places. Dates. These FARC cockroaches you worked with need to be exterminated.”
“Those ‘cockroaches’ are my comrades.”
Cabral laughed. “Comrades? You? A rich college kid? With an IQ off the charts? I don’t think so. You’re only playing revolutionary hero so you have permission to kill.”
Suárez leaned forward. “I believe in the revolution.”
“You don’t believe in anything. I’ve read your dossier. You’re godless. Soulless. Like a wolf. You’ve tasted blood. Lots of blood. All you want is more. That’s all.”
“Go to hell.”
“You misunderstand, Vladimir. I admire you. I can use you.”
Suárez raised an eyebrow, confused.
“I can get you out. Put you back in the hunt.”
“What do you mean?”
“You have a talent in high demand. I can take advantage of that. Discreetly, of course. I’ll put you in deep with one of the cartels. You’ll help us break the back of those animals from the inside.”
“But only if I give you the names of my FARC comrades first.”
“They threaten the government.”
“I don’t care about the government.”
“I don’t blame you. But only the government can set you free. Don’t you want to be free?”
Suárez shut his eyes again. Only, this time he could see the CIA man who killed his wife. See his own hands wrapped around the CIA man’s throat, feel his larynx crushing beneath his grip, his blue eyes bulging out of their sockets.
“I want it badly.”
“So tell me. Names and places.”
“Who is the CIA man?”
“I’ve made an inquiry. He’s a ghost. I’ll help you find him, but you’ll have to be patient. A man like that will always be in the shadows somewhere. And that’s where you’ll be, too. You’re bound to meet him eventually.”
“And all I have to do is give you what you want, and I’m free?”
“Totally free. But you’ll report to me, though rarely, and carefully. And if you ever betray me? Well, you can imagine how that will go. What do you say?”
Suárez lit another cigarette. He took a long pull, thinking. He held the cigarette between his fingers, twisting it, turning the smoke into tight little curls that rose like climbing grapevines toward the ceiling light.
“How will it work, exactly?”
“You’ll need a new identity, of course.” Cabral reached into his canvas bag and tossed a Colombian passport onto the table.
The assassin picked it up and read his new name aloud, “Rafael Vargas.” His practiced eye scanned the rest of the document. Faded entry stamps, coffee-stained pages, and the like.
“Pretty good work.”
“Better than CIA. You’ll receive advanced training in weapons, comms, and tradecraft before we send you out. You’ll need some plastic surgery, too. I’ll make all the arrangements.”
“When do I start?”
Cabral reached back into his messenger bag. He tossed a yellow pad and a couple of pens onto the desk.
“Names, places, dates. You know the drill.”
Suárez picked up a pen and wrote the name “Rafael Vargas.”
“What’s that?”
“Wanted to see how it felt.” Vargas scratched it off and wrote down his first FARC name.
“Hungry?” Cabral asked.
“Starving.” He didn’t look up from the pad.
Cabral stood. “I’ll grab some hot food and a couple of cold cervezas.”
“I’ll be here, jefe.”
“We’ll make a good team, you and me.”